Subsisting only on solitude,
Comprehending solitude does hold
A means of subsistence, would be good.
The suffering to get there is great
And not good, and along the way risks
Death without having achieved success
At proper solitude, but it’s worth it,
Isn’t it? Other roads aren’t easy,
Either, and by the time you get there,
You’ve lost any choice about the means.
To be as still as possible now,
Like someone practicing their fasting,
Retreating from people by degrees,
Feels good. But then, some fictional punks
Might show up with their satirical
Anti-religion, seeking blessing
From the recluse—or any manner
Of helpful people might find a way
To get involved, or the state might just
Drag you off to park you in a crowd
To perish with proper surveillance
And a file, accountably worthless.
Even as you drift off thinking this,
Someone raps on your window, Buddy,
You okay there? Just checking on you.
And as always, you’re grateful and scared.
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